


Of Toque and Cheese Cake

by FujinoLover



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Prophets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2515325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaw loved food. Sam, the perfume salesperson, also loved food. It was not so unusual for her to swing by a restaurant, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Toque and Cheese Cake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Delfries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delfries/gifts).



> Whatever this is, blame my girlfriend and the Hello Kitty-shaped cake she bought me.

 

“It’s going to be a long fight, but it must be won, at any cost.”

 

Shaw’s blood ran cold and she froze. Root might be dead.

 

* * *

 

Root had found Harold watching Simon Lee from across the street. She used her lunch break to meet him. Her ribs ached, her shoulder ached, but there was no time to rest and recuperate when the world was at war and they were on the losing side. Her heart jumped when Harold greeted her with a small smile before they exchanged words. The very same upward tug decorated his lips when they parted way. Root chose to stay longer, her eyes lingered on the building ahead—James Murray’s gubernatorial campaign posters were occupying most of the windows outside the lobby. She wondered whether Shaw was still somewhere within the building or not. She could not tell, not with The Machine kept quiet—unless utterly necessary—in her ear. After long minutes staring at the far up distance, somewhat hoping to catch a glimpse of dark hair and grumpy face, she left.

 

Root was totally unaware of Shaw watching her.

 

* * *

 

This was crazy, Shaw told herself. She did not even know what she was doing, but her guts told her to do something—anything. She could not keep inert, she had to move or else she would explode. She had to find Root. She had to make sure that perky psycho was still alive and breathing and if she was not in one piece, she would stitch her back together herself. Apparently, she had been crazy for quite some time now. Manic episodes hit her whenever Root put herself in danger and this was definitely one of it. Stealing a bike then pedaling it all the way to New Jersey like a mad woman on a mission was nothing compared to what she was doing at the moment, because Shaw was stalking _Harold_ in hope that Root might contact him.

 

It was not for naught.

 

Root was there. Dark blue sling contrasted greatly with her white shirt and was that a toque on her hand? Shaw raised a brow, straining to hear what Root and Harold was talking about. This was even crazier. She should have marched forward and made her presence known, instead of eavesdropping and hiding under the shadow of a building. She watched on as Harold left and Root remained behind. She could not see her face, but she saw the little sigh and the slump of her shoulders before she left.

 

Shaw turned to stalk Root instead.

 

* * *

 

Root had run all the way down three blocks from the hotel, Martine hot on her tail, before she slipped into a dark alley. It was one of the blind spots. She found new identity and groceries waiting for her in one of the dumpsters. Root shed her latest layer of skin—New York Journal’s journalist, Karen Iverson was dead and Hannah Karpinski emerged from the other end of the alley, stumbling with blood on her clothes and tears on her face. Poor Hannah was caught in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting on the way back to her apartment after doing a late grocery shop. She happened to run out of chocolate and milk for this elevated recipe of pralinsko she was trying to make at home after work.

 

People rushed to help her and within minutes, Hannah was transported to the nearest hospital by an ambulance. (One of the advantages of being one thousand person, Root thought, was that she did not have to worry about getting proper medical attention.) Both bullets went through, no vital organ damaged on their paths of destruction. After stitches, pain meds, police questioning of the unfortunate incident, and one night of observation, Hannah was free to leave. She arrived late at the restaurant, but her boss told her to stay out of the kitchen to recuperate anyway. It did not mean she was out of desk duty, though.

 

Root felt relieved Hannah was shot because she could not, for the life of her, _bake_ anything. She did, however, suspect The Machine gave her the name—Hannah, so similar to her dear friend Hanna—as some sort of a reminder. She would not let this Hannah die as well, but alas, she could not save her from doing inventory. After all morning tackling flour and fresh fruits, she opted to man the pastry corner of the restaurant for the rest of the day. It was not exciting at all. At one point, Root thought she might get high from smelling the sweets, yet such musing was still better than letting her mind wander to a certain brunette she had been thinking about since the last time she saw her in the hotel room.

 

_I think she already knows._

 

Her chest ached and she vehemently claimed it had everything to do with her bullet wounds and nothing to do with the current occupant of her mind. She wondered if she should pay a visit to the batcave after her shift, if she would see relief fleeting through Shaw’s expression when she saw her, if she really already knew like Harold had claimed. Her thought, however, was cut short when the very object of her attention walked up to the corner where she was standing behind the pastry display case. The muscles on her face must have betrayed her and spilled all the surprise she felt because Shaw was smirking at her.

 

“Why are you here?” Root immediately matched the smirk and added a little suggestive wiggle of her brow, despite her heart lurching violently inside her chest. “Are you checking up on me?” She purposely threw Shaw’s questions back, knowing it would annoy her.

 

“I’m here for the cheese cake,” answered Shaw. Her tone flat, but her eyes had made assessment of Root’s visible injuries, _twice_. “What time do you get off work?”

 

Root did not even need to see the watch to know the answer, she had been checking on it every five minutes or so. “In fifteen minutes.” Her brows furrowed together as she tried not to read too much into the situation. “Why?”

 

Shaw shrugged. “I’ll wait.” She nodded at the general direction of Root’s sling, desperately avoiding her eyes as she said, “Gotta check on ‘em myself.”

 

There were so many innuendos Root could have spouted in return, yet she settled on dumbly nodding her head back. She watched as Shaw went to the maitre d’ to place her takeout order. Not a minute later, she received an order for two slices of cheese cake for takeout—Shaw’s, without a doubt. Root felt silly because her heart was swelling with emotions, not from the order but from the fact that Shaw actually cared about her, just like she, too, cared about Shaw. There was no need for any message, after all.

 


End file.
